the spring sometimes with mud and rains, where we wore jackets and sweaters, walked the miles and sat a while upon the hill where a stone was stationed. overcast and windy, but, as it goes, change does the world well sometimes. then, warmth and the celebration of summer, its blooms and creatures and the clear blue sky, the petals just there and the feral ferns unwinding. see the verdancy of the woodlands whimsical, the paths and ways wondrous.

Autumn waits and then its own brand of beauty, hues red yellow-brown,- the treeline captures one’s eye there, calm, reminding somehow of all the autumns before. where is that sweater?-that jacket?- that book of poems or novel that used to be revisited in the fall months? what would Henry Miller say about?- he said he liked Jack Kerouac’s nature writing. he would have something to say about it, something positive, life affirming. the sagacity of seasons…everybody wants only the great sun and clarity,- but the cycles of time know what they are doing. winter,- cold and brooding, serious and often saturnine. bleak days, early dark, but sometimes the sun, the sparkles of snow upon branches near or wild. that is good, no?- the quiet meditative earth then, blanketed in nature’s newness and wisdom…

Broken 

We are broken from previous years

We are broken and weak

Do not come with gifts and close mind

We cannot believe words

Because was never said

We are broken

With several wounds

We try to fix ourselves

Love

Is a word

That nobody understands the same way

Love

Give

Protect

Understand

Respect

Heal

Rebirth

We are broken

Not ready to move

In this life 

Don’t play with Human hearts

Echoes of Peace

In lands once torn by hate and fire,

Where echoes of war still climb higher,

The cries of those who fell too soon,

Are whispered soft beneath the moon.

No victor stands on bloodied ground,

For in their hearts no peace is found.

The cost of war, so steep, so deep,

It leaves the world in endless weep.

Yet hope still rises with each dawn,

A plea for peace where war was drawn.

For every hand that lifts a gun,

Another seeks the warmth of sun.

Let not the swords be drawn again,

Let not the children feel the pain.

In unity, we stand, we vow,

To build a future starting now.

For peace is born where love remains,

And kindness soothes the deepest pains.

Let nations learn, let voices sing,

The world needs peace, not war’s cruel sting.

Maja Milojković was born in 1975 in Zaječar, Serbia. She is a person to whom from an early age, Leonardo da Vinci’s statement “Painting is poetry that can be seen, and poetry is painting that can be heard” is circulating through the blood. That’s why she started to use feathers and a brush and began to reveal the world and herself to them. As a poet, she is represented in numerous domestic and foreign literary newspapers, anthologies and electronic media, and some of her poems can be found on YouTube. Many of her poems have been translated into English, Hungarian, Bengali and Bulgarian due to the need of foreign readers. She is the recipient of many international awards. “Trees of Desire” is her second collection of poems in preparation, which is preceded by the book of poems “Moon Circle”. She is a member of the International Society of Writers and Artists “Mountain Views” in Montenegro, and she also is a member of the Poetry club “Area Felix” in Serbia.

for Katie

by the glow of the cigarette she bummed, Madam Marie read her palm

overcoming the limitations of Etch-A-Sketch with a ball-peen hammer

I’ve given up on the idea of ever bending a spoon with my mind

the gray green Atlantic rollers on the way to my father’s first wave

Fuller’s Earth

her thumb print 

next to mine

the staggering odds he was deifying depended on a simple utterance

foreman berating Snot-rocket at the work site

bird migration

Hitchcock rushes to board before the closing doors

of the bus in my consciousness

three fairy ‘glees’ for the soul of Jack Kerouac

he came out in the heat to pick a leaf up off the lawn

her dead son’s shoeshine box

the footrest

size 9

Governments of this overheated world, ashamed before astral travelers

Friendship

Friendship is close to the concepts of brotherhood, friendship and brotherhood, but from a psychological point of view, it is different from each other. We believe that friendship is a psychological concept. Friendship is a wonderful bond that connects one person to another person, one nation to another nation.

Every person and every country has a brother country, a friend. Even lonely people. Loneliness is not unique to people. People have many friends, but only one friend. He stands by your side in good and bad days. Friendship is a relationship between people based on views, mutual understanding and trust. If you trust your friend to tell your secrets, he will never reveal them. There are poems about friendship with a wonderful meaning. Friendship can be likened to a glass, because the glass cannot be restored and returned to its original state…

Friendship is not likened to a bottle for nothing.!!!

Kurolova Dilnura Shokirjon’s daughter was born on October 15, 2009 in Gurlan district of Khorezm region. She is currently a student of the 8th grade of the 30th school. To date, she has achieved many achievements.

My stomach is the palace of hunger

My tank clatter ironical song that clutter my pleasure,
Rhyming chronicles cock like confused can,
For course that clamps my container.
Chuku-chuk-chuku-ku-chuk!
Causing sounds as cavalry choke on war,
Itching as chisel choking on wood.
Crawling core my heart chimney.
Converting charge to body weakness.
Coercing me clutches calm humbleness,
When feeling uncomfortable like comb choking my clatter container.
I conclude to comply to its command…
Conning me to comply as he concise.

I am a miner of peace

I have been mining peace with my peace digger core metaphor
Arranging words to sentence with the alphabet of inspiration
Laddering rhyming sword that kills conflict
Filling my leaves with my shape edged pen build up of simile
Pouring hyperbole water to fills the leaves of crafted poems.

Nuraini Mohammad Usman is a passionate writer and student from Minna, Niger state with roots in Kano State. Inspired by his experience and culture, he crafts uplifting poems and stories that ignite positive change with a strong foundation from Dayamas Model School, Better Treasure International School, and Al-Fawzul Azeem International School, Nuraini is currently honing his skills at Legend International School and the Hilltop Creative Art Foundation. He believes in the power of words to inspire and motivate others.

A COUPLE IN A ROOM

They’re in a room.

And not just any room.

By their very presence,

it’s the room they are in.

Maybe it’s morning.

Or evening. Or dark out.

Or light. Or a certain day

or month. A particular year.

But the room could care less.

Only within matters.

Only each other.

And nothing of anything else.

They huddle. They hold

each other. They’re the

room’s center of power.

They tell it what to do.

            The room obeys

            admirably.

REVOLVING

Death was always a revolver, lying around,

waiting for someone to pull the trigger.

Every chamber was empty but one.

There were potential shooters everywhere.

If they really wanted to kill you,

there was nothing you could do to stop them.

The news was more about knives.

Little jabs from the stories

of what happened to others,

whether it was war or disaster

or local or even family.

For some reason, the blades,

sharp as they were,

couldn’t stab deep enough

to cause the ultimate damage.

You wore the scars, if not proudly,

then at least with deference.

As you grew older,

you didn’t fear that pistol as much.

There’d been shots fired.

But most missed.

A few bullets caused mere flesh wounds.

But the aim was improving.

And your body felt more and more like a target.

The sympathies of others didn’t help.

Sure, they stepped into the line of fire for a moment

but, at the sound of the bang,

they fell away,

left you exposed,

just the way you wanted it.

In the end,

you were so sore and tired and pain-wrecked,

you picked up that revolver yourself,

fired away until a bullet found its mark.

Come morning,

they found you in your bed.

Dead of old age was the conclusion.

But dead of what it takes to die

was the truth.

PAWN

He didn’t wake up one morning

and say to himself, “Yeah that’s me.

I’m the runt of the chessboard.”

He’d been small and powerless as a baby

The years hadn’t changed the situation.

He had his own house — more of a crib

really – with a mortgage looking over it.

And a wife and two kids to share

in his lowly status:

Plus extended family — a hierarchy

that forever doomed  him to a bottom rung.

And a job that shunted him this way,

that way — atypical pawn – of limited

movement, potential, disposal,

and no chance of being a king.

The city with its. roads, its traffic signs,

its cops, its bankers,

only existed so as to tell him what to do.

He attended church to confirm his insignificance.

And played cards with his buddies

though even the winners didn’t really win.

Alcohol found him an easy mark.

So did reality TV.

And then-the doctor’s found

cancer in his brain —

inoperable and in charge.

THE SUN’S PROXY

So little of the sun’s rays

make it to the attic window

and the subsequent shine

does no more than

illuminate some flies,

living and dead.

The past lives here

so it’s only right

that brightness look elsewhere

for its truth

and that a pervading dimness

tends to the fully-packed cardboard boxes,

the over-stuffed metal trunk.

I come up here with a flashlight,

so that I control memory’s narrative,

glossy up an ancient photograph

yet leave a wedding dress in shadow,

glimmer off a bronze baby shoe

but let sleeping love-letters lie.

In this cramped space,

I am the sun,

uncaring of a jigsaw puzzle

but stopping to polish up

a favorite model MG sports car,

shunning school report cards

while bringing out the colors

in a far-too-small-for-me

hand-painted psychedelic shirt.

The true sun

must concern itself

with the limited world of insects.

In low-ceilinged storage space,

the life I’ve lived

revolves around me.

TO BE WHAT THEY’RE LOOKING FOR

A beautiful beach day,

perfect for the tan that will give me

that G Q look just in time

for Miss Right – the phantom lady.

Sea breeze is blowing,

my air’s full of sand

and smells like salt –

hope that doesn’t chase away this woman

who’s not about to show up anyhow.

I tried hawking myself

in the nighttime,

but neon always focused

on my worst side

and shadows had their own dark things

to say about my character.

I’m a compendium

of fidgeting theories,

in constant search for that holy grail –

my best aspect.

What if that special someone prefers

natural off-white to bronze?

And I’m not so muscular.

Is my bathing suit just being honest

or is it asking for trouble?

I could dress in a suit

and look as square as six Salvation Army generals.

Or shop where the kids shop

and come off as a survivor of a time-machine crackup.

Some things they say should be left to chemistry.

So ultra violet rays contribute to oxidative stress,

melanocytes produce eumelanin.

Really, I’m doing all I can.

John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in New World Writing, North Dakota Quarterly and Tenth Muse. Latest books, ”Between Two Fires”, “Covert” and  “Memory Outside The Head” are available through Amazon. Work upcoming in Haight-Ashbury Literary Journal, Birmingham Arts Journal, La Presa and Shot Glass Journal.